When I first hired Leena, everything just clicked.
She was twenty-three, just out of college, cheerful in the way you hope someone will be with your child. Her resume was spotless. Every reference I called spoke about her like she was Mary Poppins in leggings. More importantly, my daughter Tessa—usually shy, sometimes wary—had smiled during the first meeting. Actually smiled. That hadn’t happened in months.
After rotating through half a dozen sitters, I finally exhaled.
I even joked with my sister that I’d found a unicorn.
And for a while, it seemed true.
Leena arrived early.
Tidied without being asked.
Left notes detailing what Tessa ate, how long she napped, and what story they read before bed.
Tessa seemed lighter.
More playful.
She even started drawing again—pictures of flowers and hearts and smiling girls with long brown hair that looked suspiciously like Leena’s.
But then… little things started to feel off.
It started with a smell.
One night, as I was getting ready for bed, I noticed my favorite perfume bottle had shifted. It was just slightly out of place—angled differently on the vanity. Nothing dramatic. Nothing a breeze or a careless elbow couldn’t explain. But still.
The next day, I noticed the top drawer of my dresser—where I kept old keepsakes, including letters from Tessa’s dad—was open by half an inch. I hadn’t opened it in weeks.
I chalked it up to stress. Or forgetfulness. Or maybe just my imagination getting the best of me after too many nights of Netflix thrillers and not enough sleep.
But then came the whisper.
Last night, after Tessa brushed her teeth and crawled into bed, I tucked the blanket up under her chin like always. We chatted for a minute about school and snacks and why carrots will never be as fun as cookies.
And then she said, in that quiet, innocent way kids say the most unnerving things:
“Leena goes in your room when you’re gone.”
I paused.
“What do you mean, sweetheart?”
Tessa’s voice didn’t waver.
“She reads the letters. The ones in your drawer. She puts on your shoes. And she talks to the mirror sometimes… like she’s you.”
She said it like it was funny. Like she’d stumbled on a grown-up secret game. Her big eyes blinked at me, waiting for me to laugh.
But I didn’t.
Because my stomach had already dropped somewhere near my knees.
I forced a smile. Kissed her forehead. Told her she was safe.
Then I closed her bedroom door and sat in mine with the light off, just staring.
At 2:11 a.m., I finally stood up. Quietly.
I checked my drawers.
My shoes.
The mirror.
Everything looked… normal.
And yet nothing felt normal.
Because that drawer—where I kept the letters from Tessa’s dad, the ones I hadn’t shown anyone—wasn’t just slightly open anymore.
It had been opened and re-folded with a kind of clumsy care. The kind that doesn’t belong to the person who wrote those letters—or the person they were meant for.
I didn’t sleep that night.
I couldn’t.
I just kept hearing Tessa’s voice: “She talks to the mirror… like she’s you.”
This morning, Leena texted like always:
“On my way! Can’t wait to see Tessa 💛”
I stared at my phone.
Something in me wanted to cancel. To come up with a lie. To say, “Actually, we don’t need you today.”
But I didn’t.
I told her we’d see her at 11, just like usual.
Because part of me needed to see her.
Needed to look her in the eyes and know what I was dealing with.
She arrived right on time.
Hair pulled back.
Coffee in hand.
Smile wide and effortless.
And as she walked in, bent down to hug Tessa, and chatted like everything was normal, I couldn’t help but feel like I was watching a performance.
A perfect one.
But a performance all the same.
I told her I’d be home early today.
That I had a headache and might rest upstairs.
She said, “No problem!”
And I watched her eyes flick—just briefly—toward the hallway that led to my bedroom.
That was all I needed.
Right now, I’m sitting in my home office with the door cracked just an inch.
I can hear Tessa laughing in the living room.
I can hear Leena’s soft voice reading a story.
And I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears like a warning.
I don’t know what Leena wants.
I don’t know why she’s going through my things.
I don’t even know if this is just a strange misunderstanding or something darker.
But I do know this:
Tomorrow, she won’t be coming back.
And tonight?
Tonight, I’m changing the locks.
I’m putting the letters in a box in the attic.
And I’m holding my daughter close.
Because sometimes, the scariest things don’t come in the dark.
They walk in smiling.
With references.
And good intentions.
And they learn how to open your doors—before you even realize they’re knocking.
If this story unsettled you, share it.
For the parents who trust too quickly.
For the instincts we silence.
And for the little voices who speak truths we need to hear. 🗝️🖤
